


Only Fools Set Me Free

by Exlibrisashbel



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Robbery, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-09-01 04:51:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16758280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exlibrisashbel/pseuds/Exlibrisashbel
Summary: Arthur Morgan is a fool, but even more so is the company he keeps





	1. Chapter 1

Somehow, someway, Arthur knew he would manage to make a fool of himself once more. By either saying the wrong thing, falling face first into a puddle of mud, or slamming a door open into a woman’s face—anything was possible with him. He was ‘prone to trouble’ according to Hosea.

Once Arthur saw the saloon doors up ahead, he stopped to check his appearance. His fair hair was shaggy, just a few inches too long, and the dusty dirt of Saint Denis stuck to his forearm as well as the left sleeve of his shirt. The charcoal vest he wore was torn in several places with a few broken buttons but it was the best, and cleanest, one he owned. He already looked the fool without even trying. When he crossed the threshold of the saloon, every head turned his way. The final nail in his coffin was that nearly every other man in the building was dressed to the nines. As if Trelawny took it upon himself to clothe every man in the city. One man in particular stood out. Boots caked in mud from the bayou and tan pants torn from the stray tooth of a wolf were almost as comforting as a bottle of whiskey for a bullet wound. Albert Mason sat at the bar staring at an array of photos. Beside him sat his camera, presumably reserving the stool for Arthur. As if sensing him, Albert turned his head and smiled, “Mr. Morgan, over here!”

Arthur chuckled, forgetting the crowd around them as he took the stool beside Albert, “I see you just fine, Mr. Mason.” “Right, yes, of course,” Albert paused, before sliding a few of the prints along the slick bar, “I brought a few of our pictures, Mr. Morgan. They turned out magnificent, if I say so myself—”

Arthur flagged the bartender as he examined the prints, while Albert rambled about the pictures. He noted Alberts habit of claiming the pictures as ‘theirs’, as if Arthur had actually done more than keep the endearing fool alive. But even so, he found that he didn’t mind it, because the other man was right. The pictures were absolutely stunning. From the herd by Emerald Ranch to the devils of the bayou, each captured a wild beauty. It reminded Arthur of a few of his sketches, though they lacked the same effect.

“Do you like them, Mr. Morgan?”

“Sure,” Arthur smiled at the delight in the other man’s hazel eyes, as a feeling fluttered in the pit of his stomach that was not entirely non-welcome. That feeling was beginning to happen more and more with each encounter of his odd friend. It came with fear, excitement, and fifty thousand problems that Arthur carefully ignored for the time being. He continued as the bartender approached, “And you can call me ‘Arthur’, Mr. Mason."

“In that case, call me Albert.”

The bartender cleared his throat, “What can I getchu fellers?”

“A whiskey and…” Arthur glanced at Albert.

“A whiskey, God knows I need it.”

The bartender nodded, “That’ll be two dollars.”

“Two dollars!” Arthur exclaimed, before cursing under his breath and tossing the money on the counter. He heard Albert chuckled beside him, and raised his brows, “Something funny, boy?”

“Just thinking that next time we should drink in Valentine.” Albert teased, leaning on the bar. All his attention falling on Arthur.

Arthur shifted in his seat, suddenly remembering how he looked. Hair too long, stubble unshaven, stains on his clothes, but Albert’s gaze didn’t leave. When the bartender set the shot in front of him, he raised it to his lips and asked, “So there will be a next time then?”

“Oh of course,” Albert paused as Arthur took the shot before adding, “I heard there was a grizzly in the woods near there—”

Arthur choked on whiskey, spilling it on his chin. He wiped his lips before glaring at Albert, “You better be joking, or so help me, I will let them eat you.”

“Relax, relax, I’m not that big of a fool.” Albert chuckled and passed his whiskey to Arthur, “Only eagles this time, I promise.”

“Knowing you, they’re probably man-eating eagles the size of a damn hotel.” Arthur took the shot before rising from his stool, “C’mon Mr. Mas—Albert, walk with me before you go off on your next wild adventure.”

“Just let me grab my things,” Albert grabbed the prints and hid them in his satchel, before snatching his camera off the counter.

Arthur led them down the cobbled streets of Saint Denis, avoiding as many people as he could. In the thick city air, a silence had fallen over them. After few failed attempts at conversation on Arthur’s part, Albert thankfully took the reins, “So Arthur, what uh, do you do exactly? Are you an adventurer?”

“Uh… sure. Kind of.” Arthur hesitated, “I just wander some days, for the peace of it I suppose.”

“It can’t be too peaceful when you have to protect a distressed damsel at every turn.”

“I don’t mind if it’s a pretty one,” Arthur said without thinking, and was met by an amused snort.

“Too bad I’m not pleasing to the eye, Mr. Morgan.”

“Now, I wouldn’t go that far, you—” Arthur paused, both in his steps and his sentence, as a blush rose in his cheeks, “You ain’t bad to look at. I mean, I- I… I don’t know what I mean by that.”

Albert grinned, speaking softly for only Arthur to here, “If it helps, Arthur, you’d make a fine damsel.”

“Are you calling me a pretty boy?” Arthur raised a brow, turning onto another street. It would be a lie if he said he knew where he was going. The city was a damn maze, but he didn’t mind getting lost with Albert. With every step, friendliness turned to flirting, smiles into smirks, and noon turned to night. They were just behind the saloon, in one of the countless alleys of Saint Denis, hidden in the shadows from the crowded streets when Albert stopped them. Before Arthur had the time to ask why, Albert’s lips had found his. Chapped but full, and just as bold as the man they belonged to. Arthur melted into the kiss, as a voice nagged him in the back of his mind. Foolish, foolish, fool.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the lack of Albert here, but as i was writing a plot formed.

_Never in my life have I seen a man try to fight gravity, but here we are. The brave and almighty Albert Mason challenged gravity to a duel and won. Well, with my help. Says he’s done with the pictures, and he’s going home. Shame. This the last one of our ‘adventures’ I suppose—_

“Should I ask why you keep bourbon in your satchel, Arthur?” Albert asked, popping open the bottle. They sat together in Horseshoe Overlook, far from the cliff’s edge. After the Albert’s most recent duel with death, they were supposed to get drinks in Valentine. An event Albert had evidently been looking forward to as that was his first question as they mounted their horses and Arthur almost said yes, since his pockets were filled with money at the moment. The he remembered he had just robbed the bank of Valentine not two hours before.

“Sure, you could ask,” Arthur drawled, closing his journal, “But then I wouldn’t let ya drink it.”

Albert sipped from the bottle before passing it over, “Found it in your wanderings then?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

He had stolen it from a rancher just south of the Emerald Ranch, but that wasn’t business Albert knew, or needed to for that matter. Arthur had learned far too well from a woman named Mary Linton that it was best to separate his life from his personal affairs. Not that what he did with Albert was an _affair…_ after all the most they did was kiss.

Arthur glanced at the other man, who gazed at the forest below in awe. It was becoming rarer and rarer these days to find someone that admired the pure beauty in the way he did. Most saw only the ugly, the cruel, and the gruesome of the world. When Albert Mason turned his attention, his face hardly changed.

Arthur put his focus into lighting a cigarette, “So, where you live, Mr. Mason?”

“Up north, but I rented a place in Saint Denis, so Saint Denis I guess now.” Albert snatched the bottle of bourbon, “What about you, Arthur? Where’s your home?”

“I… Uh.” Arthur coughed, exhaling a puff of smoke as he did, “I don’t have one I suppose.”

“Well,” Albert said, taking a drink as he sat beside Arthur. Close enough that their legs brushed against each other and their shoulders touched, “Feel free to visit mine then.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Mason.” Arthur whispered as Albert leaned in.

Bourbon tasted about as sweet as sin when he drank it off Albert’s lips.

_Never in my life have I seen a man try to fight gravity, but here we are. The brave and almighty Albert Mason challenged gravity to a duel and won. Well, with my help. Says he’s done with the pictures, and he’s going home. Shame. ~~This is the last one of our ‘adventures’ I suppose—~~_

_I was wrong. So very wrong. Albert has invited me to visit his place in Saint Denis. Though I love the city as much as I love stepping in dog shit, I see myself making more trips there. At least to see just the rest of the pictures he’s taking._

“Arthur! Hey Arthur!” John’s voice called out, as he stomped across the camp with Lenny Summers by his side.

Arthur glanced up from his journal, before snapping it shut. He slid the book under his pillow swiftly, “What you want, Marston?”

“I got word on a coach going up to Saint Denis from Rhodes tonight,” John said, leaning against the paint-chipped wagon, “You want in?”

“You got word,” Arthur repeated, lighting a cigarette, blowing smoking as he snorted, “Oh this better be good.”

“It’s one of the Braithwaite’s. Like a cousin’s brother’s sister or something.”

“Hell, you just described half of their damned family. Dutch and Hosea know about this?”

Lenny snickered, piping up with a wide smile, “Where’d you think John got the word from?”

Arthur chuckled, stomping out his cigarette, “‘ _I got word’_ , he said. Shoulda known you couldn’t come up with a plan yourself.”

Looking about as dumb and constipated as he was, John rolled his eyes, “So you coming or not, Morgan?”

“Sure. Gotta see little Johnny Marston’s big plan for the stagecoach.”

“I say one thing, and I’ll never live it down, will I?” John muttered as he began walking towards the horses.

“Learn from Bill, Mr. Marston, if Arthur messes up, well... ‘It’s just one of them things.’” Lenny chuckled, patting Arthur’s shoulder as he continued, “Kind of like how you messed up the dynamite fused for that Cornwall train.”

“LENNY!”

John spun on his heel, a devilish grin forming on his lips, “Arthur, did what?”

The ride to the lookout spot for the stagecoach was filled with endless teasing than turned to ruthless arguing. In every sense of the word, but the literal one, they were brothers. When they fought, they fought like stray mongrels. Lenny watched the road through his binoculars and listened for the sound of flying fists behind him.

“Maybe if you actually worked for once instead of running off for days on end—”

“Now, _Johnny_ , I know you aren’t complaining. You left for a damned year and still came back empty handed.”

“Oh, and what do you bring back?” John huffed, “Storybooks for Jack?”

“Yeah, and you know what else? Food, money, or a pair of damn shoes for the kid if I find ‘em,” Arthur snapped, raising his voice in a way that hit harder than a bullet, “Because you _sure as hell ain’t.”_

“Don’t act like you’re the father of the year, Arthur, he ain’t even your kid!”

“You said he ain’t yours either. He could be anyone’s. Javier, Dutch,” Arthur snorted, “Maybe even me—I mean we _all_ had her.’

“Well then, if he’s your son, let’s hope he doesn’t end up like the last one—”

Just as Lenny saw the coach, John was cut off with a thud. When he looked to the men behind him, he wasn’t surprised to see John pinned under Arthur’s weight, nor the fistful of John’s collar in Arthur’s hand.

“You keep that boy’s name out your filthy mouth, Marston, or I’ll replace it with a bullet. Don’t you test me, Boy.”

“Hey, guys, stagecoach full of money is headed this way,” Lenny said, climbing into his saddle, “Kill each other if you want, but let’s get the money first, deal?”

Arthur shoved John into the red ground, before stepping over him. Wordlessly, he mounted his horse, Nero—a solid black stallion meaner than The Count. Before John could even stand, Arthur had was already making his way down the hill, with his bandana covering his face.

He could kill him; he sure as hell was pissed enough to, but he wouldn’t. Because unlike John, Arthur knew the meaning of family. Family wasn’t something you ran from, be that family of blood or bond. He didn’t need to pick one, because John had both. He had Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur. Abigail and Jack, and yet he abandoned them both. For a _year._

There were two men driving the stagecoach, and what appeared to be a woman inside. He shoved down his thoughts of John, but let the anger simmer as he raised his pistol. He fired one shot in the head of the gunner, “Better stop that coach, Driver, or the next bullet goes in your brain.”

The driver looked over his shoulder warily as she slowed the coach. He reached for his partner’s rifle, and was met by the barrel of Lenny’s repeater, “Ah-Ah, Mister. Wouldn’t try that if I were you.”

John pulled his repeater from his back and aimed at the coach’s door, as Lenny climbed into the gunner’s seat, “Come out now, Ma’am, and no one gets hurt.”

“Well,” Arthur chuckled, “No one else at least.”

The door creaked open, and out stepped a young woman in a cerulean dress with golden hair. She stepped down from the coach as regal as a queen. With the moonlight at her back, Arthur could hardly make out her features, but even so something about her was familiar. He couldn’t put his finger on just what exactly. Until she opened her mouth.

“Let me go,” Said Penelope Braithwaite, producing a revolver from her skirts. She aimed it right for John’s forehead. Arthur knew her family well enough to suspect she would very well pull the trigger, “And you won’t get hurt.”

John raised a brow, but didn’t move otherwise—well, aside from his mouth, but Arthur was beginning to suspect that was involuntary, “Boys, it looks like we have a little hellfire on our hands.”

“I just have a lot less then you to lose.”

“Let her go, John.” Arthur said, yanking his bandana off his face, “I know this girl.”

Penelope lowered her gun, eyes widening in surprise, “Mr. Morgan?”

John huffed, lowering his gun, “Dammit, Arthur, why didn’t you say somethin’ earlier?”

“Maybe I was just hoping she’d shoot ya,” Arthur sighed, sliding off his horse, “Hello Miss Penelope, should I even ask why you’re out here. Seeing as your precious Beau isn’t here, I’m guessing it wasn’t a choice.”

The driver of the coach struggled against Lenny’s chokehold, “Traitorous bitch, my mother should’ve done more than send you to Saint Denis.”

Arthur leaned back and gestured to the driver, who “This another cousin, Miss Penelope?”

“Unfortunately, this one’s twice as stupid as he looks and ten times as angry.” She paused, glancing at Arthur, “If something were to happen to him, say if he were killed in a robbery…well I wouldn’t miss him.”

“Lenny, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like a word with your new friend.”

“Sure thing, Boss.” Lenny said as he shoved the driver off the coach. The man landed flat on his stomach at Arthur’s feet.

Without hesitation, Arthur put a bullet in his brain.

“John, search the bodies, and Lenny, you strip the coach. Miss Penelope, do you have anywhere else to go?”

“I can’t go back home… or Saint Denis, now either I suppose.”

“Well, how do you feel about robbing your entire family blind?”

“Oh, Mr. Morgan, it is one of my sweetest dreams.”

Arthur smiled, “Then consider yourself kidnapped, Miss Penelope."


	3. Chapter 3

Sean’s voice rung out as they neared the camp’s edge, “Ay, who’s there? Quick before I shoot ya!”

“You and I both know you can’t aim for shit, Sean!” Arthur called as they approached. The Irishman leaned against a tree, with his rifle pointed down and a bottle of whisky in his hand. _Useless sack of turds_ , Hosea had once called him. _Hosea’s always right_.

“Arthur Morgan! Whose wit’cha?” Sean grinned, as Arthur brought Nero to a stop in front of him. Sean patted the stallion’s side, before holding his hand out for Penelope, “I’m Sean Macguire, at your service.”

Penelope let go of Arthur’s waist to shake Sean’s hand, introducing herself with a kind smile.

“Oh, you’s one of them Braithwaites. Your brothers are right bastards, ya know that?” Sean said, before loudly whispering to Arthur, “You not worried ‘bout bringing her into camp?”

“Nah, Miss Penelope here is more of a… willing hostage. I think Dutch and Hosea might want her help.”

Sean nodded, returning to his tree, “Good luck with that, Ma and Pa’s been fighting again.”

_Great,_ Arthur thought, urging Nero to move once more. In the past, Dutch and Hosea had hardly argued, and when they did, it was in private. The only reason someone would know afterwards was the lingering tension. Recently however, the two had been snapping at each other in the middle of camp. No quite yelling, but not hiding their harsh words either.

“Mr. Macguire is quite something, isn’t he?” Penelope remarked, breaking Arthur’s train of thought. If she thought Sean was something, he could only imagine he reactions to the rest of them. Especially Micah. _Damned snake._

Sean wasn’t lying about Hosea and Dutch, not in the least. The two of them stood on either side of the table trading verbal blows with the grace of politicians. Neither them or the gathered crowd noticed Arthur hitching his horse nearby, nor him helping Penelope down. Hosea slammed to hands on the table, glaring at Dutch, “And then what, Dutch? We get more money, and then _what?_ ”

“Stop doubting _me_ , Hosea. I know, I _know_ things haven’t gone as smoothly as we would have liked.” Dutch paused, taking a deep breath, “but I need you to have some goddamn faith. I have a _Plan._ ”

“That plan is as real as the Braithwaite gold,” Hosea said, shaking his head. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Penelope cut him off approaching the table.

“I don’t know much about this plan, but I do know about the Braithwaite gold.” She announced, causing both the older men to startle.

Dutch put his hands on the handle of his pistols, “And just who are you?”

“This is Miss Penelope Braithwaite,” Arthur said, catching up to Penelope, “She was the one ridin’ in that coach Lenny, John, and I robbed. I figured she might be able to help.”

Sighing, Dutch crossed his arms, “And what, did she so graciously offer her services?”

He didn’t know whether it was the look in his eyes or the sharp sarcasm in his tone, but Arthur felt himself shrink, “No, I—”

“He kidnapped me actually,” Penelope supplied, oh so helpfully.

Hosea snorted, “You don’t look much like a hostage, Miss Braithwaite.”

“Please, call me Penelope, Mr…?”

“Hosea Matthews, dear,” He said, flashing a charming smile.

“Well, Mr. Matthews, I’m more of a—What did you call it, Arthur? A willing hostage. You see, my Aunt Catherine, I believe your familiar with her. Nasty Woman. Anyway, she decided to finally send me off to a nunnery down in Saint Denis like she’s been promising. So when the offer came to, excuse my language, rob the bitch blind, why I just jumped at the chance.”

“Oh, so it was _you_ who so graciously offered services, Arthur,” Dutch joked with a slight smile. The way the man’s moods shifted on a dime in the past few months was unnerving. His temper had always flown with the breeze, but it seemed to be getting worse since Blackwater. _Maybe it’s just stress._ Dutch glanced at Hosea, with a plan already forming in his mind, “What do you think, Old Girl? Can she help?”

Hosea straightened up, scratching his chin, “You said you knew about the gold? Do you know where its hidden? In a cellar, behind a wall, under the floorboards…?”

Penelope took a deep breath, and Arthur froze with one foot in the air, match in his hand, and cigarette between his lips, to brace for whatever bad news she was about to deliver.

“There is no gold.”

Those four simple words were damn heavy for a moment, crushing them with the weight of realizing just how truly and utterly _fucked_ they were. At least until she continued, “But we got _jewels_ , we got _horses_ , and we got _money._ ”

Aside from the faint buzz of a lone horsefly, the camp was utterly silence. Glances were stolen as an electrifying excitement passed from person to person. The spell erupted when Arthur struck his match. At once, everyone one was talking. Both in hushed whispers and drunken shouting. A devil’s smile slid across Dutch’s lips, “Miss Grimshaw, find a place for Miss Penelope to sleep, she has a long day of planning tomorrow.”

Arthur sat on the table, flicking ash as the crowd dwindled. One by one, the gang went about their business, be that setting up tents or guard duty. Dutch, however, stayed by his side.

Neither spoke, but Arthur could feel a conversation coming. Most likely a lecture on how stupid it was to bring the Braithwaite girl to camp, even if it worked out. Or how he hadn’t be putting enough money in the box. _Always stupid and never enough_ , he thought bitterly, _that could be my motto._

Dutch clamped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it for a second. _Was it affectionately or angrily?_ Arthur braced for a blow of harsh words but was hit a lot harder by what he heard, “I’m proud of you, son, and I’m sorry for earlier. But to be fair, it isn’t every day a random woman shows up at camp.”

Arthur blew smoke, lazily tossing his cigarette to the ground, “I understand.”

“You staying around camp for a while?”

His answer was interrupted by Old Boy and Maggie trotting to the hitching post, their riders cackling about god knows what. The second Arthur met John’s eyes, the smile slipped off of Marston’s face. _Serves him right_. Arthur looked at Dutch, “Actually, I think I might head to Saint Denis for a few days.”

“Saint Denis? Why there?” Dutch asked, furrowing his brow. He glanced at John before leaning close, “You know there’s still raccoons in the city, right?”

“Yeah, but they’re cleaner,” Arthur chuckled, “Nah, seriously, I’ll look into finding someone to buy the Braithwaite horses, maybe find a few small leads—ya know, since we got that whole deputy thing in Rhodes.”

Dutch nodded, before turning for his tent, “Let me know whatchu find.”

By the time Arthur got to Saint Denis, the first few rays of morning like filtered through the city. After going in a few circles, taking thousands of wrong turns, and nearly running over a blind beggar (that could see well enough to flip him off apparently), Arthur thought he might have finally found what he had been searching for.

Exhaustion made his eyelids heavy, as he leaned against the cold brick wall, lazily knocking on the front door. _If this is the wrong house again,_ Arthur thought, _I will not only be having words with Albert about why he couldn’t just take a picture of the damn place, I will also sleep on some poor stranger’s doorstep._

During the minutes of quiet stillness, awaiting an answer, Arthur must have nodded off. He could have sworn he was yanked out of a dream when he heard the door creak open beside him.

“Arthur?” A familiar voice croaked. In the door way, stood a sleep tousled Albert Mason.

For a moment, Arthur was distracted by the way his hair stuck up in every direction. It was damn cute. _Maybe I was thrown in a dream instead of yanked out of one._

Albert pressed his cheek against the door frame, “Dear, you’re staring.”

“I’m sorry, I…” Arthur would be blushing if he had gotten more than four hours of sleep in the past two days, “…I don’t even remember what I was saying. Or doing. What was you doing?”

“Sleeping, Arthur, “Albert drawled, a soft smile on his lips, “Something you clearly need to try one of these days.”

“Maybe I could start now.”

“And maybe you could do it with me, if you lost the muddy boots and the jacket,” He said, pushing the door open.

The house was fairly small and empty, a few chairs in the living area with blankets draped across their backs. Aside from the pictures taken by Albert himself, there was hardly any décor. Arthur took two steps through the door before taking off his boots.

“So, what brought you to my humble abode, Mr. Morgan?”

“I was just in the area,” He lied, tugging off his boot, “Could’ve warned me that nearly every house in Saint Denis had a red door though.”

“Oh, you didn’t do what I think you did, did you?”

“Let’s just say I doubt half the people in this city will be pleased to see me,” Arthur smiled. There was an awkward moment after getting the boots and jacket off that he didn’t quite know what to do. Or where to go for that matter. Thankfully, Albert took hold of his sleeve, lightly tugging him towards a door in the back of the room. For a brief moment, Arthur wished he had grabbed his hand instead.

The thought was tossed aside when they got to the bedroom. A single, but large bed took up most of the space, leaving just enough for a dresser and nightstand to fit in. There were more than enough pillows and blankets in that bed for two people, let alone just one.

Arthur glanced between the bed and Albert, raising a brow, “Remind me again how you survived the wilderness?”

Flopping unceremoniously in bed, Albert said with an easy smile. “Hotels mostly,”

“City slicker.” Arthur said, crawling into the space between Albert and the wall.

“Country Bumpkin.” Albert shot back, tangling his fingers in Arthur’s hair the moment his head hit the pillow.

It was an odd thing, he and Albert, or at least Arthur thought so. The way they always seemed to find each other when they (Albert) needed it the most, or how opposite they truly were; a city slicker and a country bumpkin (even though Arthur was definitely _not_ that) were two things that didn’t match. Not to mention that they were both men, a fact Arthur was not keen on focusing on. Whatever was between them felt different than what he had with Mary or Eliza, it was softer thing, more fragile. If Arthur knew himself as well as he thought he did, he’d manage ruin it like he had with Mary and Eliza. Soon, Albert’s name would join the list of his mistakes.

But for now, he scooted closer to Albert’s side, sliding his arm around his waist. The last thing he felt was a soft kiss against his head.

It wasn’t the bright morning light that woke him, nor the bustle of camp, but the feeling of a body shifting beneath him. As he blinked away the haze of sleep, the memories of the night before rose in his mind. Slowly, became aware of the careful fingers still curling his hair, the rise and fall of the chest that pillowed his head.

Arthur took the moment to gaze at Albert when the fingers let go

He held a book in one hand, flipping through the pages with the other. Hazel eyes quickly scanned the page while he furrowed his brows. Only once he found what he searched for, did he let his hand stray back to Arthur.

Before Albert could reach his hair, Arthur grabbed his wrist gently.

Albert startled, nearly dropping his book, “Oh! You’re awake, I didn’t disturb you, did I?”

“Wouldn’t I be disturbing you?” Arthur asked, pressing a kiss to the back of Albert’s hand. It was a test of sorts. What could he do? Where were the boundaries? Could he kiss him if he wanted to? Questions and curiosities floated to the surface. _Can he feel my heartbeat?_

“Not at all,” Albert said, closing his book and placing it on the nightstand, “But could you do me a favor?”

Arthur paused, raising a brow, “Sure, I suppose.”

“Could you please scoot up? Just a little.”

With vague confusion, Arthur did as he was asked. Their faces were mere inches apart, close enough that they could feel the warmth of each other’s breath. The corners of Alberts lips quirked as he breathed a single word before closing the distance between them.

_“Perfect.”_

He didn’t taste the bitter sting of bourbon on his lips, nor did he actually focus on the taste of each passing kiss. One by one, they were sweeter. Almost passionate even.

When Albert trailed the kisses down his neck, Arthur couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be reading?”

Albert chuckled, pushing the fine leather suspenders off Arthur’s shoulders, “Oh, please, I have that poem memorized anyway.”

“You do?” He asked as the brunette pushed his back into the mattress, “Recite it then.”

_“There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you.”_

Albert straddled his hips, with a wicked smile.

_“There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is in you”_

Arthur shivered as his partner nipped at the skin of his neck.

_“No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you”_

Fumbling fingers undid the buttons of his wrinkled shirt.

_“No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.”_

Wild kisses, wild hearts, and wandering hands.

_“As for me, I give nothing to anyone except I give the like carefully to you.”_

Bare skin against skin was a feeling more intimate than most.

_“I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you.”_

He had never heard his name sound so beautiful.

Sung like a praise, whispered like a prayer, as if it were something to be treasured.

They lay there silent save for their breathing. Bare limbs tangled together, and the blankets long abandoned. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur spotted his satchel where he left it on the floor earlier. Aware of Albert’s even breathes behind him, he carefully reached for it. He rolled his back slowly, hoping Albert wouldn’t wake. Opening the satchel, he looked for his journal, intending on sketching the sight beside him. Cold fear creeped in his bones when he realized it was gone.


End file.
